Page 91 of Daddies on Ice

“I think you already have!” Trent’s voice cracks with emotion. “She was off limits, Ash. Off fucking limits! She’s my baby sister, and you were supposed to be my friend!”

“I am your friend,” Ash says, his voice still that dangerous quiet. “And I would never hurt Tish. I…I care for her too much.”

The admission hangs in the air between them, raw and honest and completely unexpected. My breath catches in my throat, my heart hammering against my ribs.

But Trent doesn’t seem to hear the sincerity in Ash’s voice. All he hears is confirmation of his worst fears. “You son of a bitch!”

The punch comes fast and hard, Trent’s fist connecting with Ash’s jaw with a sickening crack.

Ash’s head snaps to the side, and he staggers back a step, his hand automatically rising to his face.

“Trent, no!” I scream, but it’s too late.

Ash straightens slowly, working his jaw as he stares at Trent. There’s a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth, right where his old hockey scar is, and his brown eyes have gone cold.

“Feel better?” Ash asks quietly, wiping the blood away with the back of his hand.

“Not even close,” Trent snarls, and lunges at him again.

This time Ash is ready. He catches Trent’s wrist, deflecting the punch, and the two men grapple. They crash into the small table by the window, sending my coffee mug flying to shatter against the floor.

“Stop it!” I shout, trying to get between them. “Both of you, stop!”

But they’re beyond hearing me now. Years of friendship have dissolved into raw emotion and flying fists.

They slam into the wall, pictures rattling in their frames, and I have to jump back to avoid getting caught in the middle.

I can see immediately that Ash is holding back.

Every move he makes is defensive, designed to block or deflect rather than cause real damage.

Keeping up with his hockey training has made him fast and strong, and if he wanted to, I realize with a chill, he could probably end this fight in seconds.

He could wipe the floor with Trent without breaking a sweat.

But he doesn’t.

Even as Trent lands another punch to his ribs, even as they crash into my small kitchenette and send dishes clattering, Ash continues to pull his punches.

He’s trying not to hurt his best friend, even as that same friend is trying to hurt him.

“Please!” I try again, my voice breaking. “Please stop fighting!”

They don’t listen. Trent tackles Ash around the waist, and they both go down hard, rolling across the floor of my small cabin.

The sound of their struggle—grunts of effort, the thud of bodies hitting furniture—fills the space.

That’s when I notice the door.

In his fury, Ash had burst through it and never bothered to close it behind him.

It stands wide open, and I can see curious faces beginning to gather in the snow.

“Oh god,” I whisper, recognizing some of the other players. Word of this fight will spread through the team like wildfire.

The last thing we need right now, with everything else going wrong, is for the team captain to be brawling with a civilian.

“Guys, seriously, people are watching!” I call out desperately.